Unofficially
by control of chaos
Summary: Based off speechbubble's two drabbles, Hope and Certainty. Slash warning in advance.
1. Hope

_Hope_—Alex's POV. Created by the courtesy of the wonderful _speechbubble_, whose work in her _Unofficial Files_ by the same name inspired this two-shot.

Also, in respect for _speechbubble_'s preferences (and mine!), this **will be slash **(AR/BD). Admittedly not much (because I really suck at it, to my downfall), but I'm warning you in advance. **No flames will be accepted** relating to the slashy-ness. You don't like, you don't read. Again, no complaints about the slash. **You have been warned!**

_Those that are submitted anonymously will be deleted, and the signed ones will be ratted out both here and on my profile. Names will be listed under the A/N in bold lettering, for those interested. I sincerely hope that I'll never have to carry out this threat._

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><p>The building had exploded, and it hadn't been his fault. No, really.<p>

The most recent evil genius with plans to fix the world (via its total destruction, of course) had been Dr. Leonard Rivers. He had intended to tap into the world's greatest supply of fresh water, the massive glaciers off Antarctica's frozen shores, and essentially transform them into poisonous wells. His deed wouldn't have been noticed until the seasons changed, melting the majority of the icy mountains and large chunks of Antarctica's coast.

What he had been hoping to accomplish in the long run was beyond MI6's knowledge, much less Alex Rider's.

Alex had been sent in as a researcher's adopted son. His goal: trade out the toxic chemicals with the pure water being extricated. It had gone surprisingly well, right up until the researcher said a little too much to her boss after a night of poker and drinking.

As always, Alex had wound up in a compromising position, sent a request for help to MI6 which still hadn't been answered two days later, and managed to pull off several impressive feats backed by sheer luck and a handful of well-placed gadgets. The director had immediately shut down the labs to keep the teenage spy from getting into them, which hadn't exactly helped the situation. The lab technicians had been working with toxic chemicals, and as the alarms sounded, they reacted quite expectedly. Total panic.

The ill-timed action, and resulting chaos, had caused the spill of several dangerous chemicals. Even worse was the result when the various chemicals met. Thus, the explosion.

Alex had been running down one of the back corridors, searching out Dr. Rivers to halt his plan, when the explosive fires started in the opposite wing. The initial detonation had made him freeze in his tracks. Already, he was recalling the various amounts of equipment which were definitely not fire retardant. Any buildup of gases could trigger subsequent reactions. In short, this place was going to be gone within the next hour and he didn't have a ride out.

So he had done the only things he could. Close the doors behind him as he ran, hoping to deter the fire, and grab the jacket he discovered slung over a chair, to keep the cold off until MI6 decided to conveniently remember him.

Another impressive blast, this one much closer than its predecessor, jogged his memory. Smithers had been smart enough to incorporate a secondary line into his SOS beacon; it essentially split his GPS signal into two separate routes. One would be sent to Blunt and Jones, and the second to Ben Daniels' cell phone.

Ben worked for MI6, but more in the paperwork department than out in the field, like most newbies started out. It wasn't a complete shock, then, when he had taken leave last week. "Just in case," he always said, and both of them knew that if Alex needed assistance on the field, MI6 wouldn't be providing it until it was too late.

And it looked like the circumstances would be repeating themselves, as history always said they would.

Before the shutdown sequence, set off by the first explosions in the lab, could seal him in the metal prison, he dashed out between the bay doors and tumbled out on to hard, unyielding ice. The doors slammed shut with a resounding thud only seconds later. There would be no other escapees joining him on the frozen terrain.

It was only now that he realized how hopeless his scenario was beginning to appear. Any vehicles had been kept carefully locked down in the bay he had so narrowly escaped, he had no food or water to sustain himself, and with the minimal protection of the jacket, sweater and jeans he was wearing, he wouldn't last more than a few hours, even with the fresh spring heat.

Watching the sky and shore for signs of Ben, MI6, _anyone_, he walked continuously to keep his blood moving. Sitting would only let hypothermia set in faster. To his dismay, the fire and blasts in the labs had caused sections of the ice to weaken and fracture, leaking water through the cracks and on to the ice around him.

A final explosion sent him careening over the slick ground and nearly into the sea before he grabbed the edge of the ice. Pulling himself back up, he shivered despite himself. The sea water had soaked him up to his knees. Alex knew he should stand up and at least walk around, keep the cold from to him, but he already hurt so much and hadn't gotten nearly enough sleep during the past week. In his delirious state, he thought, 'A short nap won't hurt…'

* * *

><p>Alex woke, at least partially, to the sound of helicopter rotors in the distance. He intended to prop himself up on his arm and get up to wave his hands, just to make sure the helicopter could see him. After all, he was in a white jacket and pale jeans in the middle of an icy desert. There was no way he would be spotted if he laid here face-down on the ground.<p>

But he found, to his amazement, that he could only shudder. His arm wouldn't move, and neither would the rest of his limbs. The bitter cold previously biting savagely into his skin had been replaced by a just as daunting dull numbness, that his whole body had succumbed to while he floated aimlessly in dreamland.

And despite his doubtfulness, the helicopter was somehow getting closer, despite how he camouflaged into his surroundings. The GPS. They were tracking his distress signal, not looking for a body.

But who? It wouldn't be MI6, he thought sadly, his eyes drifting closed again despite his attempts against. He tried to remember who else would be answering his call, but somehow, the name kept slipping from his grasp. Why couldn't he remember that name? It was important somehow, and he had to figure it out.

Beneath the slowing whistle of the helicopter's blades through the air were the soft crunching sounds of light feet atop the thin layer of snow. Rushed footsteps, he thought. At least someone cares.

Finally, he felt a warm hand on his cheek, almost too warm but he didn't care. It pierced through the ice crystals, snowflakes and frostbite that had sealed over his skin. The rough heavy feel of wool fell over his neck and back, and he was suddenly off the ground and in a pair of comfortably warm arms. As he felt the warmth penetrate his skin, he grabbed weakly for his savior's shirt. Frantic indiscernible words were whispered under the breath above him, but it wasn't the words that mattered. It was the voice. The familiar voice. Ben.

With that name came hundreds of other associations: peace, safety, comfort, friendship, brotherhood, long days, longer nights and love of life. The cold didn't matter when the warmth was already infinitely greater.

The helicopter flight was surprisingly short, but he didn't take that into account. The time itself slurred into one long blur. All he felt were the gentle hands holding him close, keeping the blanket securely around him, and saying soft words of reassurance, though it was uncertain as to which of them they were intended to reassure.

But none of it mattered, he thought sleepily. He just wanted to drown in this comforting grasp, and as he fell asleep again, he heard just faintly the sounds of protest above him.

* * *

><p>Alex came to as he felt Ben jump out of the helicopter, his ever so warm palms pressing him lightly, and almost possessively, against the spy's shoulder. He thought that somewhere in the background, amongst the clamor of unfamiliar voices, he heard Mrs. Tulip Jones, the deputy director of MI6. But why would she be here? It hadn't been <em>them<em> answering his distress beacon, after all.

Pulling in an unsteady breath, he strengthened his grip on Ben's shirt, trying to see what was going on. Whatever he tried to say, despite how he cleared his lungs, didn't come out at an audible level.

Ben knew he was conscious as soon as he shifted and glanced at the teen he was holding. "Al," he said, releasing a heavy breath of relief. "Hey, don't move too much. You have dehydration, frostbite, hypothermia, the whole nine yards. I'll have you to a doctor in just a minute."

He felt himself shiver again, realizing just how close he'd gotten this time. If Ben hadn't responded as quickly as he had, MI6 wouldn't have gotten there any faster. The missions were getting longer, harder and much more dangerous. MI6 didn't seem to care, and there was a limit to how far Smithers stick his head out. They used to at least make the illusion that he had some kind of backup. Now, he was lucky to have a partner willing to be on standby.

Forcing his frozen vocal cords to work, he rasped out, "Sorry." There was still an Australian undertone to what he managed to get out, as he had been undercover long enough to forget it was there at all.

Ben looked down again in surprise. "For what?" Re-thinking his words, he shook his head. "On the other hand, talk later. I'm no doctor, but if you could see yourself, you'd agree with me in the diagnosis that you look like shit. Talking probably won't help."

But Alex was persistent. "S-sorry f-f-for ge'ing in t-trouble again," he managed, stumbling through the simple sentence. "Ha-happy to see y-you."

"You screw up your voice permanently, and it's your fault. I'm putting that on record right now." Yet Ben found he couldn't keep the frown on his face. "Glad to see you too."

The young spy smirked, both at the comment and as a nurse offered to put him in a wheelchair, only to have his partner turn her down quite forcefully. Another was hiding her mouth behind her hand, laugh lines creasing the skin beside her eyes. The one working at the counter beside her didn't quite manage to get her own palm up before mouthing the word 'adorable'.

Neither of them took much notice to that, and Ben finally grabbed a white-coated doctor. "Hey, is there someone available? He needs medical attention _now_."

The doctor only glanced down briefly, and evidently he saw enough. "I was just going on lunch break, but if it's for Rider, I'll grab something later."

Ben and Alex shared a look that said neither of them had a clue as to how the good doc knew the teenage spy's name. "You certainly make an impression on people, Al."

"I try." He sighed and let his head fall back against his partner's chest. "S-shouldn't fall asl-asleep right?"

"That's for a concussion, but my best guess would be yeah, no sleeping."

"Damn. T-t-tired."

"Here." In the hallway ahead, the doctor waved a hand as he located a vacant room. "Bring him here."

"Just a few more minutes, Alex." The spy said, carrying him to the small room and dropping him (did it seem reluctant?) on the bed. Their hands stayed clasped as Ben sat down. "Doc will have medicine in you, and you can sleep as long as you want."

The doctor checked all of his vital signs, took note of the dangerous purple and black bruise-like splotches on his hands and ears, removed his boots to find similar discolorations, and started an IV. "Minimal third degree frostbite, maybe fourth. Onset of moderate to severe hypothermia. Minimal dehydration. Tachycardia (fast heartbeat), tachypnea (rapid breathing), hypertension, and pale, likely all effects of hypothermia." He looked up at Ben. "This one should be easy to treat. Fluids, warmth, the basics. Warm saline and 5% dextrose are already being started to help warm him up. I'll bring in some hot water to begin active rewarming."

"C-can I s-sleep?" Alex asked.

"I see no problem with that, so long as you stay warm." He turned to Ben. "Call for one of the nurses if something else happens before I get back. There should be _plenty_ in the hallway, just in case." The pink tinge on the teenager's cheeks wouldn't have been visible if he hadn't been sick. Evidently, the nurses flocked to their favorite patient like bees to a flower patch. It hadn't passed under the radar of the doctors, either.

Ben nodded. "That's easy enough to remember. I've got it covered here." As the doctor left the room, turning the thermostat inside the doorway up as he did, the spy turned to Alex.

"I'll wake you up when Jones comes in to get mission details. The nurses and I can ward her off for at least a day."

Alex smiled. "Best w-words I've h-heard t-today."

Ben stood, not letting his grip on Alex's frostbitten fingers loosen, to put a soft kiss on blue-tinged lips. The teenager felt the touch electrocute him momentarily with warmth and fell asleep knowing he wouldn't be cold for long beside such a fiery presence.

* * *

><p>AN: My first ever attempt at slash. I never would have ventured here had not the wonderful _speechbubble_ so inspired me in her own story (which you will all now go read). There's a second part to this from Ben's POV, which may or may not be posted soon. (I'm travelling for three weeks.)

Again, if you didn't like the slash, don't complain. Send me a PM if you really _really_ want to pass along the message.

And thanks again to _speechbubble_. I want more chapters from you!


	2. Certainty

_Certainty_—Ben's POV. Created by the courtesy of the wonderful _speechbubble_, whose work in her _Unofficial Files_ by the same name inspired this two-shot. Sorry for this part being so long. *facepalm* This is actually the shortened version.

* * *

><p>He hadn't actually <em>expected<em> anything to go wrong. Things just always seemed to slide that way when Alex was involved.

Working as a part-time spy had its perks, which came in handy when his partner was sent on solo missions. Neither Blunt nor Jones could come up with a good reason as to why he wasn't allowed to go along, so agreements were made that he would get put on standby just as long as Ben promised never to get involved unless it was really necessary. Of course, they were difficult in deciding where the boundaries of 'necessary' came into play. That was how politics worked, after all. They thought Alex could miracle his way out of every problem he encountered, conveniently forgetting that he was still a teenager. Eighteen, but a teenager nonetheless.

Smithers understood. There was a lot more to the man than he had first thought, and Alex and the gadgetmaker seemed to have some kind of trust built up between them. That was enough for him. Since their initial meetings, it hadn't taken more than a simple 'please' to get the teenage spy's emergency signals bounced over to his cellular. He'd heard Alex say that on multiple occasions, MI6 hadn't pulled through on responding when he requested help, or that the help came too little, too late. This wasn't always, but enough times to be alarming.

And when he woke to the alarm on his phone, diverting the GPS beacon to send him the location, it wasn't with complete surprise. Distress, perhaps, but not surprise. It elevated when he realized where the signal had originated from: the coast of Antarctica. Al hadn't told him that, just dropping the hint the night before his departure that South America was a beautiful place this time of year, the southern tip of Argentina in particular. Only now did he realize that he was conveniently located in one of the main cities used to get to the icy continent.

Damn that sneaky teenager, he thought, snatching his cell phone from the table and rolling out of bed. He dialed the cell Alex had taken with him, rubbing angrily at his forehead when it went straight to voicemail. Dialing again, this time the call went to Smithers and it got through.

"I'm sorry, but you're going to need to speak up, old boy," the gadgetmaker said loudly, hard on work on his next big invention, no doubt.

"Has Blunt sent a team out?"

"There have been no outgoing calls from either his or Mrs. Jones' offices. I very much doubt that they plan to do a thing. For the moment, I mean. It's not that I don't get what they're doing, old boy, trusting Alex to pull through as always and undercover the whole operation, but they don't understand his limits. My gadgets can only do so much." A clinking of metal, along with a couple mumbled words, and his voice grew more audible. "Give it a day or two and Jones will have further information on the situation. It doesn't seem that she cares, but Jones has a soft spot for Alex."

He sighed. "Anything I can do in the meantime?"

"Not as far as I can tell. Rest up, old boy, and I'll have you know when arrangements are made. And don't worry. Alex is the best we've got. I wouldn't let him go without arming him first."

"Got it, but if I don't hear from you in two days, I'm hiring a plane to pilot myself."

"I'll send you the best if it comes to that. Good day, old boy."

"Yeah. Good day." Ben hung up, deeply unsatisfied but forced into a standstill. He grumbled as he redialed Alex's number. As expected, the results were the same.

But Smithers was right. Alex had the most uncanny luck, managing to get out of damn near everything at the very last second.

On the other hand, he'd seen the old bullet scar lurking dangerously close to his heart, the entry and exit wounds of some kind of blade on the front and back of his right shoulder, the fading claw marks trailing down his lower left leg, and the one that had nearly taken out his eye, running through his eyebrow and almost an inch down his cheek. Of course, he'd managed to hide the latter with some kind of skin cream for a few weeks, but Ben had caught him fresh out of the shower when it had washed off. It was when he remembered the unexplained scars that Alex became less the spy and more the imperfect human teenager.

He snapped his phone closed and stretched back out on the hotel bed. As Smithers said, there was nothing he could do. Without MI6 backing him, he was just another Englishman in a foreign country.

So he lay in the small room for an hour.

Two hours.

Nine hours. Ben ordered takeout from a local restaurant.

Thirteen hours.

Sixteen hours. He slept with his phone clasped tightly in his right hand.

Twenty hours.

Twenty-four hours. There were no messages waiting for him when he woke, but he still waited for the call to come in.

Twenty-nine hours.

Thirty-three hours. Takeout again.

Thirty-seven hours.

Forty-two hours. He fell asleep, but woke an hour later.

Forty-eight hours.

Fifty-two hours.

Fifty-nine hours.

He gave in and called Smithers again, who picked up immediately after the first ring. "Ah, this may not be the best of times…"

A second voice, a low feminine one laced with the steel of command, spoke over him with a quiet, "Phone?"

Ben tensed as he heard the words. "Agent Benjamin Daniels, is it?"

_That_ would be the familiar voice of Mrs. Jones, the deputy director of MI6 and second in command beneath Blunt himself. He opened and closed his mouth twice, like a fish out of water, before finally saying, "Good morning to you too, Jones."

"We can skip the formalities today. I can guess that you are calling because you have _somehow_ gained knowledge of Agent Rider's situation."

"It wasn't—"

"Let me finish," she said sternly, cutting him off. "When Rider's distress call was received, sources showed that he was in no immediate danger. Most likely he was worried that his cover had been blown. We determined that, until further details were determined, no recovery team was necessary. However, further details have been recently uncovered. A couple of hours ago, satellite footage showed that the research lab Rider was sent to had suffered a series of explosions, devastating the building."

The spy gritted his teeth, but listened intently as she went on.

"Mr. Blunt has just approved sending you down to retrieve Agent Rider, as his mission is obviously over at this point. There is a helicopter at the base just an hour from your current location. The pilot is equipped with a GPS tracker to home in on Rider's location. A paramedic with MI6 is en route as well, just in case you should need him. If that is it—" he had to bite his tongue to keep from letting any remarks slip that he would regret later "—then I will let you resume your conversation with Smithers." The steady click of low heels on cement resounded off the walls of Smithers' lab and into the telephone line.

"Sorry 'bout that, old boy. I should've figured she would do something like this." The gadgetmaker sounded more wry than apologetic, as if he was speaking about a competitor and not one of his bosses.

"You _did_ bug her lines first. I think the appropriate saying would be 'turnabout's fair play'."

"That would be appropriate, but then Shakespearean quotes always seem to fit the situation." Smithers chuckled. "I wish I could have sent you off in my own personal helicopter, but it would appear that it will be saved for another time."

"I look forward to that."

"Good day, Daniels, and good luck."

He shut the phone and simultaneously grabbed his cargo bag. To tell the truth, it had never been opened more than once during his visit. That instance had been last week to change his clothes after a heavy rain had drenched the ones he'd been wearing at the time.

The clerk at the desk accepted his card, tossing out an automated, "Thank you, sir," as the spy passed through the revolving door at the entrance. Sure enough, there was a plain black vehicle waiting for him just out front, the driver your everyday, unexceptional driver (minus the two holsters beneath his standard jacket, but then, they weren't visible).

There were no words exchanged as Ben slid into the backseat, dropping his bag on the floor, or when the vanilla driver stepped on the gas and pulled out of the hotel lot. Neither man attempted to start up a conversation, nor did either particularly want to. There was nothing to say. Nothing to discuss. That was how business went.

Tapping his foot impatiently, he was already out by the time the car had come to a complete stop, bag slung across his back. If it had been a normal chauffeur, he would have left a tip for the guy. This was MI6, though. He was undoubtedly getting paid fifteen times that of a normal one. A few dollars tip wouldn't make a difference.

The helicopter was a Sikorsky HH-3E JGG*, he noted with satisfaction. When MI6 got on to things, instead of sitting around sipping from their teacups, they did things right. The blond long-haired pilot was yelling down to a redhead in fatigues standing beside the body of the chopper with clipboard in hand, but he looked up when the car pulled up and waved the spy over. "Hey! I'll be ready to go just as soon as my co-pilot, Gillian here, finishes up the regular checkup." He turned back to the fatigued mechanic. "Hurry it up, will you? I've got places to be!"

"Sure, sure. Couple more things and we can be off."

The pilot grunted and jumped out from the cabin, his thick braid thumping his back as he did. He offered his hand as Ben approached, and the spy accepted it. "Jensen, sir. William Jensen, but you can call me Will."

"Ben Daniels."

"Yeah, one of the 'Bank' employees told me we'd be seeing you today," he said, sarcastically putting the air quotes around Bank. "Did I hear something about going to Antarctica?"

"You've got that right. I've got a friend down there who wants a ride out."

"And he didn't think to call a taxi?"

"I'm told that the service down south isn't quite what it used to be," he responded wryly.

"Touché." Another figure with scruffy dark brown hair and wide pale green eyes poked his head from the helicopter. When Ben looked curiously his way, Will glanced over his shoulder. "Ah, that's Doc Richards. Owen's a great doctor and good guy, but not the socializing sort. If your friend's got a bit of frostbite or pneumonia, the doc will have him fixed up faster than you'd know. We have twice the expertise of those taxi services, you know. Gillian!"

"One more thing and we can go!"

The pilot huffed. "I never have to worry about glitches while flying with him. Gillian would rather die than see anything go wrong with his darling machines."

"Better safe than sorry. I can approve of that," Ben nodded, understanding the paranoia wholeheartedly.

Will raised an eyebrow, but gestured to the cargo bag draped over his shoulder. "We don't have anywhere to stash that below, but there is a storage container by the few seats we have. Most of the stuff was taken out, with us doing mainly short runs, but we kept two of the big crates. Don't want luggage and excess ammo flying around the cabin. A little distracting for those of us trying to do the flying, steering and whatnot. Are we ready _yet_?"

"Yeah, unless you want to whine some more!" the co-pilot shouted back.

"Ready to go, spy boy?" Will's grin faded off as another thought sprang to mind. "Damn. This would be so cool, except none of the guys from my unit are going to believe that I went to the South Pole. Hell, they wouldn't even believe that MI6 recruited Gillian and I."

Ben snorted. "Now you share the feelings of just about every spy I know." Hearing the word 'unit' brought back memories, not all of them bad, of when he'd been in SAS as part of K-Unit. It had been nearly a year since they'd last gotten together for a drink. "Who're you with, anyway?"

"Formerly SAS, currently RAF," Will declared proudly. "We, and I mean my unit, would've stayed with SAS, but after a routine retrieval mission…well, the four of us decided to retire from the military completely." He frowned. "I would have kept it that way—did work for an airline for a year and some, even—but when the Royal Air Force sent me a letter, I just couldn't find it in me to turn it down."

"Then, your co-pilot…he isn't military?"

"Nope. I'm the only one from M-Unit that's still military. That's why I was wondering why both of us were pulled out here to meet the penguins." The pilot tilted his head in thought, scratching at the back of his head, and frowned again. "Unless…maybe it's got something to do with that retrieval mission. I think MI6 was behind that one too, now that I think about it."

Something in the two phrases 'retrieval mission' and 'MI6' being together made him question, "What retrieval mission?"

"Oh, they shipped us off to the coast of Australia, said there was an agent returning from space. The pod had landed further from the original location than they'd planned for, we were just about to go back after some routine stuff in Sydney, and voila, we were in a ship looking to fish out the pod."

"And the agent was a _little_ younger than you expected."

His eyes narrowed to slits. "It wasn't a one-time thing?"

"You have no idea how funny this whole thing is," Ben chuckled, a tiny smirk on his face.

"I don't think I want to know. Yeah, the agent was a _kid_. That just seemed wrong in a way, it was confirmed that he was MI6, and Gillian recognized him from camp. Can you believe that he was training in the same camp that _I_ did? We weren't there at the same time, but the unit was passing through for a week and happened to cross paths with K-Unit, the guys he'd been dumped with. Codename was Cub, at the Beacons, and his real name was something-Rider." The pilot crossed his arms. "None of us liked the idea of the military we worked for hiring _kids_ to do their dirty work, so we quit. Well, it was temporary for me, but still."

"I think I get it," the spy said, trying to sound sympathetic and only getting halfway there. Will didn't seem to have the heart to pursue the issue further. "Your co-pilot is done."

"Let's be off then." The tension hanging between them dissolved instantly.

It stayed that way for nearly five hours, no one mentioning the mission until it became apparent that they were getting close. The blond spoke up out of the blue. "Do we have any landmarks or spark signals to look for? Something to go on besides the beacon?"

Ben shrugged, before remembering that Will was watching the skies. "I guess he would be in or near the building he was staying at."

"You're sure there was nothing about some kind of bonfire or signal fire?"

"I'm pretty sure, but then Al has his own way of doing things. Why do you ask?" With the pilot's hands full, Gillian pointed a thumb out the window beside him, and Ben unlatched his seatbelt to climb over to the other side, looking out the portal. Still a distance away, the white crystalline desert nonetheless managed to amplify the glow of raging flames. "What the hell is he burning? A small building?"

"Maybe bigger. It's hard to tell from this distance." Will snorted. "At least we know where to look. The beacon will only get us within the general area."

"How long till we get there?"

"Another half an hour, at most. I've been going at top speed the entire time and we'll probably regret that on the way back. There's an airport a hundred miles north of the coordinates I have for this agent. It's a risk not stopping for fuel on the way down, but if your partner is over there, sooner's better than later."

"Al's a regular daredevil and that's what worries me. But he always pulls through," he added, "even if everything else winds up on fire. Or halfway underwater, but that only counts for stuff on water. It starts out on fire and _then_ sinks. How much longer did you say?"

"Thirty minutes. Do I need to worry about my plane while he's within a mile radius? I don't think I have insurance for spontaneous combustion."

"MI6 worries about that constantly, the spontaneous combustion I mean, not the insurance. They just say 'Who, us?' and it all gets paid off." He looked down at his lap, strapping himself back into the seat. "H—"

"If you ask how much longer this is going to take," Will warned, "I will command Gillian to go back there and beat your head through the floor."

"Actually, I was going to ask how much faster you can go," he countered half-heartedly, fiddling with his fingers.

"How long have you and your partner been together?" Gillian shot back at him, looking up from the controls.

"Officially or technically speaking? We did missions together before MI6—"

He was cut off by the pilot laughing like a madman. "Oh, that made my day. He didn't mean a _work_ relationship, you dingbat." Ben covered his burning cheeks as Will broke out in a new round of high-pitched giggles. "Heh. Priceless!"

"It's not like that!" It sounded feeble, even to his ears. "Okay maybe it is, but it's not like _that_."

"Sure it isn't," Gillian said sweetly, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "Not _yet_ anyway."

His face flushed even brighter, competing with both the clouded sun and fiery splotch against the horizon. "What the hell is wrong with you guys? Don't make me come up there."

"Oh now I _have_ to meet this partner of yours," the co-pilot teased. "I must learn what _his_ opinion on this subject is."

"Maybe Al can fly us back in the case that you both happen to fall out of the helicopter en flight," Ben grumbled, cheeks still red. "How much longer?"

Will laughed again. "You must be the overly protective one in your so-called 'nonexistent' relationship. Twenty-five minutes. Now sit back, enjoy the ride, and shut up."

* * *

><p>Not quite thirty minutes later, the four aboard were looking down at the burning complex. What wasn't encompassed in flames was smoldering to ashes and little else on the frozen terrain. Ben clenched his teeth, scanning the ground for any sign of Alex. All there was to see was white, white and more white, apart from the colorful gouts of flame breaking up the monotonous void. "Can the beacon get us any closer?"<p>

"Nope." The pilot confirmed it with Gillian before shaking his head. "It's telling me that he's in this area. Not in that wreckage, if that is any consolation, but somewhere in this winter wonderland beneath us." The green dot on the screen of the radar between the pilot and co-pilot blinked almost spasmodically, the coordinates blaring in blood-red neon cacophony.

"Wait, can you fly lower?" Ben asked, noticing a distortion in the rather plain folds of snow and ice. "I think I see something."

"Aye, aye, captain." If Will hadn't been busy with the piloting, he would have mock-saluted him.

Worry turned his tongue to sandpaper as it rubbed against his gums, and his eyes flitted from the dot on the radar to the empty ground beneath them. Empty. Except… "There!" The flutter of pale cloth over colorless scenery burned into his vision.

"Whe—? Oh I see what you're talking about. Turn the radar off, will you Gillian? We won't be needing that sucking at our energy reserves anymore."

The Sikorsky touched down gently, the rotors spitting wind over the not-quite-so-empty stillness. Ben wrenched his seatbelt off, snatching the thick wool blanket from the spot two seats down, and jumped out into the bitter cold, ignoring the chill that was seeping through the thin cloth of his t-shirt and the flakes of ice hitting his bare arms. All that mattered to him were the bitter taste of regret on his lips and the still, half-frozen body lying limply on the icy ground. Taken over by panic, he almost didn't notice the small clouds of crystallized breath that, while few and far between, were still trailing from blue lips. He put a warm hand on cold, reddened cheeks, feeling for himself his partner's thready pulse.

Wrenching himself from his dazed state, he gathered Alex in his arms, wrapping him in the thick blanket, while muttering words of reassurance under his breath. He relaxed, somewhat, as he felt weak fingers latch on to his shirt

Will and Gillian both looked back in a mixture of concern and then horrified recognition at the familiar youthful face. The pilot finally managed to speak up. "Is that…?"

The normally shy, staying to the shadows doctor seemed to come to life at the sight. Owen snatched a stethoscope and thermometer from his caduceus-marked medical bag, and walked carefully over to kneel beside the still figure clutched tightly to the spy's chest. Taking one look at Ben's white knuckles, he didn't attempt to remove the teenager from the embrace. He pressed the pad of the stethoscope to Alex's back and chest, hearing the distinct drop in speed as he passed out. The grasp on the spy's shirt remained, only because his fingers had locked in place.

Ben shook his shoulders lightly, as if afraid anything harder than that would shatter him entirely, and asked him to wake up to no avail.

"Daniels, sir? Could you hold his head back? I need to take his temperature," the doctor said, holding out the thermometer in his right hand. The spy did as Owen asked, neither of them surprised when he declared Alex was likely hypothermic at 91 F.

"Like I said before," Will interrupted, "I have to stop over at the Tentiente R. Marsh airport. It's less than an hour from here and we need the fuel. If you need to, they have heating pads, hot wraps and other first-aid kits in the storage lockers. I don't know how much we have onboard, plus what the doc has, of course, and better safe than sorry."

Ben, who would normally have responded simply to keep conversation going, couldn't seem to think of much outside of Alex. Some part of him had reasoned that if he just held on tightly enough, the teenager would be just fine, like always.

Owen continued his exam, speaking under his breath in a soft monotone, and mentioning to Ben when he noticed that the teenager's fingers was turning black with frostbite on his left hand. Concern heightening, he checked the right hand to find a similar case. "I bet they have hot water at the base," he mumbled to himself. More loudly, he said, "If it isn't too bad, we can reheat them." Carefully prying them from the front of Ben's shirt, he put them palm to palm, as if Alex was praying in his sleep, and put Ben's hands around them. "Keep them warm, and rub them quickly. Friction should help."

Gillian suddenly whipped back around. "What was did you say his name was again?"

"Alex."

The co-pilot rolled his eyes. "His _full_ name, spy boy."

"Alex Rider." He gave a wry smile. "Of course, you might know him better as Cub from K-Unit."

He sighed and turned back to his controls for a second before looking back. "Wait. I recognize your face from somewhere. Fox, right? The sniper that Serge was so proud of. MI6 snatched you up, did they?"

Ben let Alex's head fall against his shoulder while he rubbed the teenager's hands together. "You have quite the memory, especially since you were only at Brecon Beacons for the one week."

"And I had the flu half the time, so I only saw you guys the one time. I've got a great memory for faces, eidetic, I think the doctor called it."

The doctor had made up some warm towels and tossed them over to Ben. "Put those around the fingers where its worst. There should be some on the base, too."

Will and Gillian were being hailed over the radio, the airport in Argentina that they had departed from with some sort of information sent from MI6 that needed to get to them. "What do they say?" Ben asked.

"MI6 has a Cessna Citation Ten flying into port," Will declared happily. "They don't trust the hospitals in South America, not that I blame them, and are opening up a slot in the time scheduling of an airport near St. Dominics."

The pilot was evidently overjoyed at the news, but the reasoning for that went completely over the spy's head. "Uh, you might have to clarify that for me."

"The Citation Ten," Gillian said, "is the fastest passenger plane in the world. It reaches speeds just under Mach 1."

He made a circular motion with one of his hands. "Which means…?"

"Which _means _that we'll be landing in London in _thirteen hours_. Thirteen! You can't get there any faster!"

Ben let out a relieved sigh. "That is good news."

"Damn straight it is. It also means we're going to be in the air for quite awhile. Hope you ate enough for breakfast, because lunch is going to be whatever's left in the fridge at base."

"I'm a spy, remember? A day without food means nothing to me." His stomach had impeccable timing, a loud grumble punctuating the end of his sentence. The two former SAS soldiers laughed.

"Sure, spy boy," Will said. "You and your friend there might want to synchronize your stories next time, though."

* * *

><p>When they transported Alex from the Sikorsky to the Cessna five hours later, Ben found that the nights he had worried himself to insomnia over the past week were catching up to him. "Hey, can someone wake me up when we get close?" Neither Will nor Gillian had told the spy that not only was the Cessna fast, but it was also luxurious. Sitting in the seats was like sinking into an old, familiarly worn couch. Except instead of a couch, it felt like a bed right now, Ben thought. A comfy and very inviting bed.<p>

"Owen can check on your partner every hour, make sure he doesn't go comatose or something," Gillian suggested, knocking a thumb over his shoulder at the doctor, who nodded his head 'yes'.

"If you want, I can take him off you," Owen said, his tone returning to the soft, uncertain one that he seemed to revert to in situations that didn't require his every attention.

"No," he denied as soon as the words left the doctor's mouth. "I'd rather hold on to him myself." His cheeks flushed again as snickering echoed in the cockpit. He wrapped the blanket more securely around Alex and nodded off with his forehead touching the top of the teen's. Only vaguely did he hear Gillian reiterate, "Not yet."

* * *

><p>Ben was jolted awake as the plane was preparing for landing. He had fallen across the seat beside him at some point, and Alex was still wrapped in the blankets and heating pads, his head and shoulders comfortably situated on Ben's chest. Will was speaking with the tower, saying, "This is special flight ZYS647**. Repeat, this is special flight ZYS647, requesting permission to land."<p>

The buzz of static came over the radio before the flight controller replied, "You have permission, flight ZYS647. Our mutual friend wishes me to inform you that a chopper is ready to transport the patient to the ER."

"Thanks, controller. Over and out."

"We're in London already?" Ben asked, twisting to face Owen while trying not to move Alex.

"Mmmhmm. Landed for refueling twice but you didn't notice." He paused before continuing. "Your friend woke up once, but I don't think he was entirely conscious. Said something about being cold and, ah, well that's how you are now." Owen coughed into his fist, obviously uncomfortable about saying anything further.

Ben was about to say something, probably in his defense or for the sake of being contrary, but Will got to it first. "Get ready to move, guys. Let's get off this plane ASAP, because I need a bathroom break."

"Thank you for informing us, captain," Gillian responded.

The landing was clean and fast, and the pilot unlocked all the doors the moment he was free of the controls. To their surprise, it was Mrs. Jones with a thin leather briefcase in hand who stood ready to escort them to their connecting chopper ride. She dismissed the startled pilot and co-pilot, who immediately ran in the direction of the men's restroom, and invited Owen to join them for the ride. "It is not a long flight, only five minutes, but anything can happen."

Owen looked skeptically over at Ben, who nodded, and accepted the offer. "I guess one more flight won't make too much of a difference."

"Good." She said the words like a side note, as if she had already known how he would answer. Which she likely had, knowing the deputy director of MI6. Her eyes were like moving cameras, watching how he held Alex, occasionally stroking his hair to remind himself that he was still there, and how he adjusted the large heating pad against the teenager's skin, making sure any one place never got too cold. She never asked any questions, her expressions telling him that she didn't need to. The five-minute ride was the same all the way to St. Dominics: silent.

It was only when they landed on the hospital's helipad, a paramedic running towards the chopper, that she spoke again. "There is a distinct rule concerning office relationships."

He met her eyes with all the bravery and steel he could muster up. "I know and I'd like to see you try to enforce it." With that, he jumped off the pad, avoiding the paramedic trying to speak over the whir of the rotors, and ignoring the eyes he had seen for just a moment, burning with both surprise and an almost motherly concern. And they weren't too difficult to push from his mind, as he felt the familiar grip of icy fingers gripping his shoulder. He couldn't help but smile as he heard the voice he had so missed, even distorted by the strain of unused, half-frozen vocal cords. When he finally allowed himself to release Alex, for the first time in over fourteen hours, he interlocked their hands to continue feeling the soft heartbeat in the other's wrist.

* * *

><p>AN: I wrote the majority of this while up at one in the morning watching Craig Ferguson and his hand puppets. Heh. Hope it doesn't show through in the writing. The first and last sections were when I was sitting in front of the television watching _Criminal Minds_ and during the first forty-five minutes of _NCIS_, my favorite shows in the whole world (along with _Supernatural_).

Again, all credit for this idea goes to _speechbubble_ and her wonderfully done set of short stories in her _Unofficial Files_. *waves hand in magical way* You will now feel compelled to go read her stories. Before that, you will feel especially bubbly and leave a review. Or two. And you honestly believe that I am a jedi knight.

**VERY IMPORTANT NOTICE: I WILL BE ON A MONTH-LONG HIATUS STARTING JUNE 24. **I am going to be in the south of Germany and Paris, France, visiting some of my parents' old friends. While there, I will have no internet access and very little time to write. My first driving lessons start the day of my return flight, and school shortly after that. (But then, c'est la vie.) I love writing so much, but with all of this on my hands, I don't know how long it will be before I update. Hope to see you in mid-July, if everything goes smoothly!

*Chosen because they have long-range fuel tanks (plus extra fuel) and were built to withstand hostile environments. They are also, coincidentally, used frequently for Antarctic expeditions. I think you see where I'm going with this. ^^ (The JGG stands for the Jolly Green Giant, the nickname for the helicopter.)

**According to the ICAO (International Civil Aviation Organization) airline designator, airline codes beginning with Y and Z are normally reserved for government organizations. Just an interesting tidbit.


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